Family
by AlienAgainstTheWorld
Summary: Ron's experience during Rose's birth. Canon, RonxHermione, oneshot.


**Surprisingly, defying canon, there is a very small collection of RonxHermione stories.**

**So I decided I would write one, despite the fact that I'm not very fond of the pairing.**

**Its about when Ron first meets his daughter Rose.**

**Also, this is a oneshot.**

**Please review!**

**Standard disclaimer applies.**

* * *

Family

He paced impatiently up and down the corridor, feeling sweat forming on his brow. He never had been very good at controlling his sweat glands, and the tenseness of the whole situation wasn't helping his half-hearted effort to keep his shirt dry.

The corridor was pristine, empty of all human inhabitation except for a dark-haired man sitting stiffly in one of the orange plastic chairs that the staff had set out for visitors. The walls gleamed like polished ivory, the tiles shimmered like someone had cast a Reflection charm on them, which they probably had. Germs were nonexistent, which was somewhat to be expected.

Not a thing moved except for himself. The man with the dark hair sat sullenly, head propped up on his hands. He seemed to be glaring a hole in the wall, supposedly the most unapproachable man to be seen since Hades himself, but he knew that he was simply worried. It was a natural habit, and one that had only been deepened by the tough adventures they had faced over the years.

But this was a different kind of adventure, and one that he simultaneously loved and hated. It opened up new frontiers for him, changed him forever. It cemented the bond that he had with someone whom he loved very much, and had made him wiser and more thoughtful.

But at the same time, he wasn't a part of it. Sure, he was _in _the adventure, but he was simply a spectator on the sidelines, a member of the audience. He helped and he encouraged, but the real burden was on the woman who was currently screaming inside those big, metal doors.

He glanced up nervously at those menacing offenders. The Healer in charge had very firmly told him that he was not welcome inside, and at that point of time, he had felt relieved. He had heard enough horror stories from Harry to truly appreciate the delicate task that his beloved was going through now. He had, somewhat feebly, given in to the healer's demands, and sunk into one of those ridiculously uncomfortable plastic chairs.

Now he had suddenly taken a complete about-turn, leaving the traffic floundering for balance. The pained screams that echoed from behind the ominous, spotless steel doors despite the Muffling charm shocked him, and made his legs turn into liquid jelly. His stomach felt queasy, and he had an odd premonition that he should run to the washroom, and fast.

His companion didn't look any better. Despite having gone through this waiting period last year, Harry didn't seem to be handling the screams any better than he himself was. Perhaps he was simply nauseous from the idea of his friend being in pain – as she had been so many times before – or maybe, he was thinking of his past ordeal, and the fact that another one would be coming up soon.

Footsteps sounded across the hallway as a rather rushed-looking nurse flew across the white marble tiles and inside the swinging Gates of Hell. Another, terrible scream echoed from the beyond the doors as they swung open, but was quickly swallowed up by the Muffling charm. It still seemed to be haunting his mind though – the sheer, raw pain in that terrible scream.

He had been pacing for two-thirds of the time that he had been trapped in this hellhole, which meant an even four hours. Six hours ago, he had rushed from the Ministry, only to be informed that his presence wasn't needed at that very moment. He still hung around the room, though – not only because he was worried, but also because he was worried that the patient would make short work of his entrails otherwise.

He was thankful that Harry was here, even if he looked like he was going to hurl a thousand slugs at any moment (he knew that feeling – he had experienced it first hand, regrettably). The other man at least had some experience in this whole affair. Despite the fact that the 'experience' had involved his precious little baby sister in the 'pain' avenue, Harry had pretty much gone through what he had in the past nine months – screaming abuses, odd cravings, morning sickness (which pretty much took place at all hours of the day), hurling hairbrushes (or, in his case, thousand-page tomes), general emotion overload, etc. He had barely survived through it all, and had only escaped because of his mother's excellent and well-timed chocolate gateau. Apparently, they were particularly soothing to the angry urgency of cravings.

It was at times like this that he admired his father and eldest brother. Bill, for all his calmness and coolness, had survived through the monster (though undoubtedly a very attractive monster) that Fleur had undoubtedly turned into. He had kept his cool and handled the matter just like it was another job – with care, but also firmness. It was hard to believe that this mature young curse-breaker was indeed the same boy who had dunked his brother Fred's head into doxy poop when he was ten.

His father, too, had been another figure to admire. Bill had gone through this once, and Harry was preparing for the second time, but Mr. Weasley had survived this ordeal s_even _times. He knew enough about Molly Weasley to know that she wouldn't have cared about the damage inflicted on his father if she had been in the painful agonies of childbirth, and yet, his father had escaped out of it in one piece, with a reasonable level of intellect. For someone who had grown up in a house domineered by that formidable figure, he knew for sure that Arthur Weasley had been either very smart or very lucky.

Luck didn't seem to be on his side, however. He was sweating his pants out, looking up at the clock every few seconds, and generally doing a very poor job of hiding his anxiety. He could only imagine what the woman inside felt like – if he was losing his cool simply for waiting, then she, currently experiencing the most excruciating pain that could ever be inflicted upon a human, going through?

The light above the door suddenly blinked green, indicating that someone was planning to come out. The woman inside gave a final, ear-shattering scream, and then everything was quiet.

He stood there, face emotionless, eyes fixed on the little light above the doors, hands clenched into fists. Behind him, harry had finally noticed the difference, and came to stand beside him. He squeezed his shoulder reassuringly, but the man barely felt it, so preoccupied was he by those great metal doors.

Finally, after what seemed like eternity, the doors slowly swung open, and a middle-aged woman in Healer's robes stepped out. Her mouth was originally set in a straight, stern line, but gradually curved into a soft smile.

She said the seven most beautiful words that he had ever heard. "Congratulations, Mr. Weasley. You have a daughter."

His knees buckled out from underneath him, and, before he knew it, Harry was holding him, guiding him back to the big plastic chairs. His best friend was saying something, his mouth opening and closing, but Ron couldn't hear him. All he could hear was the whooshing sound in his ears, and a single thought that kept repeating itself again and again in his brain.

It was 'I'm a father, I have a daughter. She's alive, she really is there.'

The thought of the new little person so very close brought him out of his reverie, and he looked up and straight into the Healer's eyes. She looked a little worried, but otherwise fine. He asked her a single question: "Can I see her?"

The 'her' expressed in the above statement consisted of two females. One was his daughter, his newborn child. And the other was the woman who had given birth to his child.

The Healer seemed to understand. She smiled, the laugh lines around her eyes crinkling. "Of course," she said evenly. "She's awake and healthy. The baby is with her."

Without waiting for the Healer to change her mind, he sprinted into the room, running like a madman. He knew that it was against the hospital rules, but dash it, rules were made to be broken.

The room inside was spacious and very grand. He probably would have been overawed by it if there wasn't something so much more precious sitting in the centre.

On a rather rumpled white sheet, a woman in her mid twenties sat leaning against big, fluffy pillows. She looked tired – her brown hair was lank and matted to her forehead with sweat, and her eyelids were drooping – and still, she managed to somehow appear very alive and vital. The front of her standard, hospital-issue gown was open, revealing her full breasts, and it was from these that a tiny infant was currently suckling.

He felt his heart skip a beat. The entire scene was just so perfect that he was afraid to ruin it. The woman held the newborn with the delicacy and kindness of a caring mother, gently stroking its tiny head with a thumb and guiding the toothless mouth to her breast. She had wrapped the baby up in a warm cloth, careful not to press too hard on its tiny body. Soft, suckling sounds were being emitted from where the baby was greedily feeding. He was afraid that if he so much as moved, then this entire image would shatter like an illusion.

Then the woman turned, her warm toffee eyes widening with recognition. "Ron!" she said, shifting to get a better view of him.

The movement dislodged the baby's mouth from her breast, and it let out an indignant wail at having its treat taken away. Its mother looked down at it in surprise, then laughed, guiding the head back to her breast. The man carefully crossed the room, as if enchanted by the scene in front.

The mother, having reintroduced her breast to the baby, looked up at him with shining eyes. "Ron," she repeated. It was simply a word, but it said so much more than anything else ever could.

He bent down a little. "Hermione." His voice was hoarse from lack of use and extensive worrying. "Hermione, we have a…"

"A girl," she finished softly. "We have a little baby girl."

She shifted the cloth covering the baby just a little, so that he could take in his first glance of his child.

The baby's face red. Its face was scrunched up, and its lips were busy wrapped around his wife's nipple. A shock of distinct, downy red hair on its head clearly marked him as a Weasley. Its head was about one-third of its entire body, it torso being just one big round lump, and its legs two smaller ones. Its fists were clenched, the fingers and nails the tiniest that he had ever seen, smaller than even the breadth of his eye. Its toes were curled, revealing a small foot with even smaller toenails. The distinct lack of any male genitalia near its pelvis revealed it to be female.

And she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

His hand reverently reached out to touch her hair, feeling the soft downy fuzz on her forehead. She opened her eyes just a little, revealing enormous brown eyes, the exact replica of his wife's. He felt a lump rise in his throat. This was his baby girl.

"She's ours." Hermione's thoughts seemed to mirror his own. Her voice was bathed in awe. "She's really our little girl. Our baby. Our child."

Their eyes met, and Ron kissed her. "I'm so proud of you," he murmured. "You did it. You brought our baby into the world."

Her eyes moistened. "I couldn't have done it without you, love."

"Ah, can we come in now…" Harry's voice was uncertain as he poked his head inside the room. He was patient, but curiosity was wearing him thin. His eyes widened as he saw the little bundle carefully held in Hermione's arms. "Uh…"

"It's all right, Harry," Hermione said levelly, covering her breast with the fabric of her hospital gown. The baby let out a whimper at once again having her meal interrupted, but quieted when Hermione hushed her. "You can come in. And tell Ginny that she can come in now, too."

Harry stepped inside the room, extending his arm outside to help his own wife come in. Ginny managed to waddle inside without breaking the doors, quite a feat since she was now seven months into her second pregnancy, and as enormous as a house. She muttered a quiet thanks to her husband and then immediately collapsed on a stool, unable to handle the weight of her enormous baby for so long.

Harry's eyes were riveted to the little bundle currently blinking drowsily. "Wow," he said, barely managing to conceal his awe. "Wow, I mean like – congratulations, guys." He walked forward and gave both Ron and Hermione an enormous hug, staring wonderingly at the baby.

Ginny heaved herself up from her stool, braved the terrible conditions of gravity, and waddled forward to look forward at the newborn. If it had been any other day, then Ron would surely have commented on her resemblance to a duck, but today he was far too consumed by the tiny little face of his daughter. "Amazing," she commented softly, her eyes glowing with delight and happiness. "Thank God Harry floo-ed me. I have a little niece. Congratulations, Ron, Hermione."

"Thank you," Hermione said, also looking down at the little infant she had helped bring into this world. "I feel incredible just about now."

Ginny, the only other person in the room who had given birth, nodded knowledgeably. "I know what it's like. When James was first born, I just felt so overawed and yet so humble at the same time. I had helped bring a life into this world, and yet so many billions of women had done the same before me. It nearly overwhelmed me."

The two sister-in-law's eyes' met, and a moment of quiet understanding, of sharing and belief and strength, passed through them, anchored by the common bond of having a child. They had always been rather close, but now this experience seemed to have brought them closer than ever.

Harry took a deep breath. "Should I floo Molly, or…" He trailed off.

This time, Ron spoke first. "Not just yet," he said firmly. Upon noticing Harry's confused expression, he elaborated. "Mum's great with this stuff and all, but she's just a little bit…"

"Pushy?" Ginny dryly suggested, aware that the exuberance and dominance of her mother would be exactly what her brother and sister-in-law wouldn't want right now. "I've been through it, and trust me, it's not pretty. Besides, she's watching James right now."

He nodded somewhat helplessly. "It's not that we don't want to call her, we just want a little bit of time to ourselves before she… you know. Swoops down like a vulture upon prey. We will call her – just later."

Ginny nodded understandingly. "We understand. Mom can be a banshee when she's this excited, and boy, is she excited now. Her little Ronnykins is having a baby. She doesn't understand that it isn't the kind of experience that a person wants to go through right now."

"We'll be outside," Harry interrupted, knowing fully well that all Ron would want right now was to be alone with his wife and daughter. "If you need us, call."

He helped his heavily pregnant wife out of the door, and then closed it behind him, granting the couple some privacy.

Hermione sighed, opening the front of her robe again to let the baby feed. The baby latched on hungrily, as if she hadn't eaten in a week. Hermione laughed softly, her voice tinkling like the breeze.

"What's wrong?" Ron asked, concerned.

"Nothing," she replied smiling. "I was just thinking about how this little one seems to have inherited the appetite of the Weasley clan. Look at her suckling away!"

They both watched their child for a moment, entranced by the little miracle that they had created. The Ron spoke.

"What are we going to name her? We promised that we wouldn't think of any names until we saw her, and we've seen her now. Somehow it simply doesn't seem right to keep calling her 'the baby' anymore."

Hermione frowned thoughtfully. "Did you think of any names?"

Maybe it was the simple rush of adrenaline that had been plaguing him all day, or the shock of finally seeing his daughter, but Ron then made a very big mistake. He suggested the most improbable name ever. "What about Muriel?"

If Hermione had been a less headstrong woman and Ron any more befuddled, then little Muriel Weasley would have grown up into an absolute brat, spoiled rotten by her Great-aunt Muriel Prewett, inheriting her entire estate and that much-sought after tiara, becoming richer than any of her cousins. As it was, her parents had far too much good sense to let that path proceed.

Hermione looked on with an absolutely horrified expression, as Ron struggled and stammered with his words. "I – I didn't mean that – oh God, Hermione, it was a mistake. I wouldn't name my daughter after that – that – that old shrew!"

The horrified expression somewhat melted from Hermione's face, but a tense silence persisted. For a moment they were both quiet, their eyes trained on this small, innocent little child whom they were naming. The awkwardness grew ten-fold, and then Ron, desperate to break the tension, said the first thing that came into his mind. "We could always name her Molly."

Hermione's face took on a cautious expression, like the one she wore when she was telling Ron that she was recycling all his old "Quidditch Weekly" magazines. "Ron," she started tentatively. "You know that I love your mother, right? You know that I'd do anything for her, right? But somehow I don't think that…"

"You're right," he sighed heavily. "I don't know why I suggested that either. Its just not – just not the right name for her." He looked down at his tiny baby girl, who had now stopped feeding on her mother and was getting ready to fall asleep.

"What about Jean?" he suggested. "After your mother?"

Hermione shook her head. "I don't want her named after anybody else. She's her own individual, not a remake of anybody else. She should be allowed her own name, at the very least."

Silence prevailed in the room yet again, but it was comfortable this time. His little daughter had gone to sleep against her mother's chest, snuggling into the warmth. The sun was beginning to set, its last rays streaming through the only window in the room. It was an enormous affair, with stained glass at the top. The sun illuminated the little dust particles swirling around through the air, and a single white rose stood on the windowsill, its petals shining in the dusk. It was the only plant in the room, and yet, despite the oppressive heat, it had perfect posture. Its petals were milky white, the flower itself heartbreakingly delicate. He remembered what Trelawney had told him, long back in his fourth-year Divination class: "White roses symbolize purity and warmth…"

He looked down at his little daughter, asleep now, her long black eyelashes casting dark shadows on her milky, plump cheeks, her little rosebud mouth clenched within itself, her fist tightly clasped, snuggling into her mother's warmth. He looked at her fiery red hair, barely present now, but sure to be full and thick in the years to come. He thought of her warm brown eyes, hidden now, under translucent, fragile eyelids, but definitely radiating purity. He looked at her small figure, the way her thumb lay close to her mouth, ready to suck on the tiny digit, but not needed yet.

"Rose."

"Pardon?" Hermione asked, coming out of her own sleepy haze. She had been through a lot today, and even though it had brought her a great deal of joy, her body was tired and wanted to rest and recuperate. "Sorry, I didn't catch that."

"Let's name her Rose."

Hermione, considered the name. "Rose," she said, rolling the word around her mouth. "Rose Weasley. It has a nice ring to it." She looked down at her sleeping infant again.

"Rose Bertha Weasley," she said, enunciating more clearly now. She looked up at her husband. "Rose Bertha Weasley. What do you think?"

He smiled down at his wife and child. "It think it's perfect."

And there they stayed, the little family, surrounded by the warmth and light of kinship. They were together, and nearby, and that was all they wanted or needed. And even though in a few hours they would be interrupted, for that moment, it was just the three of them – Ron, Hermione, and little Rose, their daughter.

They were together, and they were Family.


End file.
